14. The Faerecio

No sooner had he pulled off his shirt and lain down in the bed than the door opened again, and Aydin walked in. The ternian had changed his clothes and abandoned his turban, and now black and curling locks of hair fell down around his face.

“I feel a lot better, healer,” Dashvara declared, straightening before his visitor could say anything.

“Well,” this one smiled, sitting down on the chair with a glass in one hand. “Your cousin explained to me that, if you die, it will be only because of your foolishness, so I’m free of any responsibility. However, I think that it would be better for you if you drink this.”

He handed him the glass. Dashvara didn’t take it.

“What’s that?”

“A strong sedative. For a restorative sleep. I’ve given the recipe to Zaetela. If you also take the beverage tomorrow, I think you’ll be ready to resume the trip the day after tomorrow. You don’t have a fever, do you?”

He accompanied his words with a motion of his hand over his patient’s forehead. He looked satisfied, and he offered his glass again. Dashvara took it. It had a water-like transparent color.

“Thank you,” he only said. He laid the glass on the bedside table under Aydin’s frowned look. “I will drink it,” he assured. “Are you going to get the poultice out?”

Aydin nodded.

“The wound is stitched. As soon as it scars over, ask any healer or any apothecary master to remove the thread.”

Dashvara gave a nod without responding, and Aydin ordered him to lie down. He cleaned the wound and put a sticky, cold ointment. When he finished, he gave him a general look.

“Do you want me to help you take off the boots?”

Dashvara put a surprised face.

“No, thanks.”

Aydin vacillated in the silence of the room.

“Are you going to drink the sedative?”

Dashvara looked him straight in the eye.

“No.”

Aydin breathed out.

“That doesn’t make sense. It’s only a sedative for you to have a good night. I feel you are nervous. You should listen to me.” He paused. “Bah, whatever. Do as you want, steppeman. I wish you well.”

Dashvara smiled.

“I’m grateful for your attention. And please don’t get angry with me. I’ve never been a good patient.”

Aydin raised an eyebrow, amused.

“No worries. You’re not the worst patient I’ve had. May the White Dragon watch over you.”

“Likewise.”

Aydin had already opened the door when he stopped, a teasing expression on his face.

“How can you say ‘likewise’ if you’re not a believer?”

Dashvara twisted his mouth funnily.

“Considering that the White Dragon represents, in that case, good luck and fortune, why couldn’t I use the same metaphor?”

Aydin didn’t look convinced.

“The White Dragon isn’t a metaphor, Shalussi. It exists.”

“You’re right, it exists in sajits’ conscience,” Dashvara conceded. “But, from what I read, the White Dragon you adore died thousands of years ago. What you all adore now are its ideals and its great strength. Therefore, the White Dragon is a metaphor. The symbol of your beliefs.”

The symbol of your Eternal Bird, he completed mentally.

Aydin, instead of getting offended, seemed to ponder over his words.

“Well. It’s a possible point of view,” he admitted. “But I still think the White Dragon exists.”

Dashvara smiled.

“And you have all the right to believe it. Just as I have the right to use its name as I feel.”

Aydin rolled his eyes. The conversation seemed to entertain him.

“Good night, Shalussi.”

“Good night. And, by the way, I am not a Shalussi.”

The healer, with a comical expression on his face, left the room, closing the door.

Dashvara waited. He knew that he still had about four hours to sleep and recover energy before moving into action, but he could not relax. He still did not know where he could find the Xalyas, or Arviyag, and he had not yet worked out a precise plan of what he was going to do. If the slave-trader was in a private house, this one surely belonged to the slaver network, and therefore, it could occur that Arviyag had at his command not only his own wagon guards but also those of partners and friends.

The objective was simple: to free the Xalyas this very night. Preferably without using the sabers since he could not completely trust his wound yet; even Rokuish would have managed to beat him by just exhausting him. On reflection, his aversion to Arviyag was a hundred times deeper than his aversion to Nanda of Shalussi. What honor could have a person who was capable of buying prisoners and reducing them to slavery? The Essimeans enslaved their war prisoners, and for that, the Xalyas had always considered them the most savage, even though these proclaimed themselves the most advanced clan in Rocdinfer and the chosen people of the Death God. In short, the Essimeans were shockingly bad people, but that “Master” of Diumcili was worse. He didn’t even seem to worry about the provenance of the slaves. Apparently, he had no scruples about enslaving people that came from far lands.

At some point, Dashvara changed his posture, and a sharp prick wrested a growl from his throat. He stood to use the chamber pot, and then he lay down again. His gaze fixed the candle, then turned to the narcissus, and he had all the time to examine thoroughly its silver petals as well as its fine, dark-as-night stalk. Sleep was about to drag him into the darkness when, at last, the door opened.

It was Rokuish.

“Well?” Dashvara interrogated anxiously.

The Shalussi sat down on his own bed and began to take off his boots while answering in a dispassionate voice:

“Arviyag lodges in the house of a family called Faerecio, in the outskirts of the town. Logically he must have brought the Xalyas with him.” He let the second boot fall, and he crossed his legs on the mattress. “From what the cook I spoke to said, the Faerecio are a patrician family of Dazbon. It’s a very powerful family. They probably have a dozen mercenaries standing guard.”

Dashvara meditated for a long time, and Rokuish finally lay down too and let out a long sigh.

“I understand you want to free your sister at all costs, but the Faerecio support both Arviyag and this Master… I dunno, Dash, I don’t think she’s treated badly. Maybe she will end up being happy. That’s the only consolation I can give you.”

Dashvara withdrew his gaze from the ceiling and stared at the Shalussi in disbelief.

“If you doubt before an innocent, you are not a coward. If you doubt before a criminal, you definitely are,” he quoted. “These words never cease to be true.”

“Don’t come with your philosophic lessons right now,” Rokuish mumbled, sitting up on his bed. “The ten Xalyas are alive, and they will continue to be alive. And you, you’re going to charge headlong to a doubtless death only to remove some chains?”

Dashvara clenched his jaw.

“Freedom, Rokuish. That’s what I intend to give them back. I grant that you may have a different view, but I want you to know that, for a Xalya, freedom is worthier than life, and if they have to risk their lives to recover it, no woman among the ten Xalyas will hesitate when I ask them to follow me, you can be sure of that.” He fixed him in the eye. “Think about it, Rok. What would you do if they were holding not my sister, but Menara instead? Would you give up saving her just because some men hinder you from doing it? Would you let fall the feather just because the gusts of wind are stronger than what you think your principles can bear? It’s all a matter of confidence.”

Rokuish remained silent for a while.

“Of confidence, eh?” he repeated. “Truly, I would like to believe it, but if you find yourself in front of five warriors aiming at you with their weapons, what kind of confidence can you have that you will get out alive? It’s like jumping into a red snake nest. There’s not a chance of you getting out alive, Dash,” he articulated.

Dashvara smiled.

“I will have confidence that nothing like that will happen. And the better the evasion is planned, the more confidence I will have that everything will turn out well, so” —he stood up and crouched down to draw the sabers from under the bed— “the time has come to spy out the land. Did the cook indicate to you where the house is exactly situated?”

Rokuish was staring at him, bewildered.

“Yes… I mean, no. The fact is…” He gulped. “Dash, why the hell did we save your life if your purpose is to lose it today in all certainty?”

Dashvara attached the sabers to his belt, amused.

“Don’t be pessimistic, Rok. If I die, I’ll let you curse my stupidity all you want. But I trust I’m not going to die. The house,” he insisted.

Rok breathed in.

“Follow the road to the south. And after that, straight to the east. The cook has talked about a way fringed by olive trees. You’ve gone totally crazy,” he added, slipping his boots on.

Dashvara frowned on seeing him getting up.

“Where are you going?”

“To help you, naturally,” the Shalussi replied. “I’ll go and get my saber.”

Dashvara blocked his way. He couldn’t believe it.

“No way. You have helped me find the house: you’ve already done more than enough. From now on, I’ll manage alone.”

Rok snorted, and he stood up to him. It was the first time Dashvara saw him so determined.

“Do you know why I left my village, Xalya? It was because, there, I’ve never felt I was accepted by anyone. You were the only one who taught me that, even though I am not a warrior, I have my qualities. So, you know, I will show you these qualities. The first of them is that I am as stubborn as a mule.”

Suddenly, a voice behind Dashvara mocked:

“Is that supposed to be a revelation?”

The Xalya turned around and saw Zaadma entering, a pile of clothes in her arms.

“I don’t want to be a pain but…” —her calm voice became hissing, and she glowered at Dashvara with a terrible look— “can I ask you why on earth you’re not in bed and why you’re holding those sabers?”

Dashvara and Rokuish exchanged a glance. The former nodded.

“You can ask, of course you can. But, out of a respect for your nerves, I don’t know whether I should answer.”

Zaadma was really angry.

“Don’t you realize you were about to accompany Nanda in his peregrination only four days ago?”

Dashvara tilted his head aside, thoughtful. He remembered that, in republican believer’s opinion, the soul, on dying, started a peregrination to the Holy Mountain, where—hypothetically—the White Dragon lived.

“I realized it very well,” he assured, “but now the matter is quite different.”

Zaadma looked at him up and down, skeptical.

“Oh, really? When you use a saber, the result is often very similar, whatever the reason.”

Dashvara slowly shook his head.

“I don’t expect to use the saber tonight.”

“Oh. Glad to hear it. So” —she sat down in the chair without averting her eyes from his— “let’s talk about that problem. What’s it about?”

Dashvara hesitated for an instant, and then he went to close the door and came back to his bed. Helped by Rokuish, he explained the problem in a few sentences. Zaadma kept strangely silent.

“So,” Dashvara concluded, “without any intention to spoil your story about cousins, my duty to free my people determined me to leave this caravan and to wish you best of luck.”

Zaadma crossed her arms. Dashvara had expected her to burst into a string of curses and sermons, but actually, she only opined:

“That sounds like an action worthy of respect. If you really intend to save them, I promise you I will work night and day in my apothecary’s shop to pay you a decent funeral.”

Dashvara sighed. Another pessimist, he thought. He was going to answer that she didn’t need to take the trouble to pay him any funeral when Zaadma went on:

“Since I know you, your behavior taught me that you know how to wait for the opportune time without rushing. Well, I advise you not to rush now. Believe me—I lived for eighteen years in Dazbon. If the Faerecio are accomplices in the Master’s slaver network and they catch you bearing sabers in their own house, you will spend the rest of your life in jail, in the Cages, and this only if they don’t decide to kill you before to prevent you from revealing any compromising detail in the remote case that the Tribunal Secretary summons you.” She took a breath and made a vague motion of her hand. “If Arviyag is planning to take the Xalyas to Diumcili, the best thing to do is to try to stop him not here, in Rocavita, but in Dazbon. It’s a big city, with plenty of places where you can hide, and that also may be an advantage for you. Arviyag will certainly have to wait several days before embarking the Xalyas. There’s no reason to hurry.” She joined her both hands and reasoned: “What I recommend is that you stay in Rocavita for one more day. Rokuish and I will go to Dazbon tomorrow with one of Shizur’s horses. We’ll find out where the Xalyas are taken, and you’ll come to Dazbon by Shizur’s wagon. You will wait to recover fully. And, meanwhile, we will find a good way to help your friends. I myself would opt for acting through legal means. You prove before the court that Arviyag is a slaver, and that’s all. Though… it’s not that easy, I guess,” she admitted. “And I suppose that, whatever you do, you will get into trouble anyway.”

Dashvara heard out her speech with extreme patience. Then, he cast Rokuish a sidelong glance, and he rose to his feet.

“Your reasons are inspired by the confidence you have in that Tribunal…”

“I do not have any confidence in the Tribunal of Dazbon,” Zaadma cut him off briskly.

“Well. Neither do I, for I just don’t know it,” Dashvara assured calmly. “So, nevertheless, I still think this is the ideal night to move into action. And now, if you please, I leave, because the night, just like a flower, isn’t eternal.”

He headed to the door, and Rokuish followed him.

“You crazy fool boys,” Zaadma grumbled. “Wait. Don’t go out dressed like that. Put on these clothes. You will draw less attention, and that way, if they catch you sneaking in their gardens, perhaps they will mistake you for some republicans with a certain status, and they will think twice before slaying you.”

Dashvara took a glance at the pile of garments she was pointing to. He could see two thin, loose-fitting pants, white tunics, and black, large veils that would probably cover the whole trunk once on. There were even two belts, richly adorned with strange, colored stones. He looked at Zaadma, perplexed.

“Where did you get all that?”

A mischievous smile stretched across Zaadma’s face, and she admitted:

“From the market. There’s the Feast of Gifts this week, and people gamble and bet. A young aristocrat won these clothes in a bet, and I offered him a dragon for it. He gave me the whole, and he even thanked me for allowing him to keep gambling without being burdened. I couldn’t imagine then that I would spend this money for two men who want to kill themselves so soon,” she sighed.

Dashvara rolled his eyes, and while Rokuish and he were getting dressed as republicans, Zaadma went close to her narcissus. Dashvara wondered whether she expected it to have grown during her absence. When he had put on the new belt and the black veil, he noticed that the strap was designed to bear two weapons.

Perfect, he thought, pleased.

He lifted his eyes, and when he saw Zaadma pouring liquid over her plant while crooning, he made an embarrassed grimace.

“Zaadma… I mean, Zae,” he rectified on receiving her warning look. He pointed to the glass. “That what you just poured wasn’t water, do you know that?”

Zaadma looked at him, startled, and she sniffed at the glass bottom.

“For the Divinity’s sake! It was the sedative made by Aydin, wasn’t it?” she guessed. Dashvara nodded, suppressing a teasing smile, and she sighed loudly. “First, it was the wine, and then a sedative… If my narcissus survives after this, I will sell it for one hundred dragons together with its historical memoirs. At least someone has made good use of Aydin’s kindness,” she added eloquently.

“Someone?” Rokuish mocked. “It’s a plant, Zae.”

Zaadma laid the glass back on the small table, grumbling.

“Plants are alive, and they can feel full well everything surrounding them, young Shalussi,” she asserted. She looked at them both with calculating eyes, and a thin smile appeared on her face. “Now you have the eccentricity of two young, wealthy gentlemen. You look perfect. Apart from the beards: they’re completely disheveled—but I suppose it’s not important at all right now,” she added at seeing the bored expressions of the two steppemen. “So! Well? Are we going to free your people, steppe lord?”

Dashvara saw her opening the door, and his eyes widened while staring at her. What the demons! Is she really intending to come with me? He let out a biting, short laugh.

“I will go to free it,” he corrected her. “It’s quite enough that Rokuish wants to get into that trouble because he’s as stubborn as a mule. But, as for you, you’re going to go to bed and to sleep like a saint feather.”

Zaadma laughed, and a cunning light gleamed in her dark brown eyes.

“You didn’t listen to me, did you? I will repeat my question: are we going to free your people, steppe lord, yes or no? And, for your information, I am as stubborn as a wall, and by the way, I have nothing ‘saint’ inside me. Besides, I know this region better than you two. So let’s go. I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she added in amazement.

She left the room with quick steps. Dashvara snorted, and he came to a conclusion:

“She’s definitely worse than captain Zorvun.”

Rokuish smiled nervously. Dashvara was tempted to suggest again he reconsidered his decision, but he thought better of it: the Shalussi was master of his own acts, and he did not want to offend him by reminding him of it. He used the old clothes to wrap his sabers to prevent any traitorous reflection. Then, he attached the bag to his belt, covered the low part of his face with the veil, and followed Rokuish out of the room.

* * *

The country house of the Faerecio was surrounded by a vast olive grove. Before arriving on the way that led straight to the mansion, they got off the road and kept advancing between the scattered trunks, getting their bearings thanks to the crescent Moon’s light.

Dashvara did not feel the tiredness anymore: he had shooed it away as one shoos a fly. Later, he would have all the time in the world to sleep. Now he needed all his concentration.

They arrived at the end of the olive grove, and they sighted a large, paved court in front of a two-storied building. A blinding light was burning through several windows and softly illuminated the arabesques engraved in the high columns surrendering the construction. A white and large stairway led to the main entrance. This one was lit with a big, red lantern, and Dashvara was able to make out the armed figures that were sitting on a bench by the entrance. They were awake, and at that moment, one of them got up to stretch his legs.

Zaadma, Rokuish, and Dashvara stopped in the darkness. They could perceive a muffled, adjusted, instrumental music from within one of the lighted rooms, on the first floor.

“Now what?” Zaadma inquired in an ironic whisper.

“First,” Dashvara murmured, “I’ve got to find out where they are hidden. I’ll go around the house.”

He was going to leave them when Zaadma grasped him by the sleeve, annoyed.

“And what about us?”

Dashvara looked at them both. He scarcely distinguished them despite them being so close.

“You…”

He frowned. What might he ask them to do?

“You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He moved on and began to go around the house, half crouching close to the ground. The veranda that surrounded the whole building was in some parts totally covered by vines. Once he arrived at the opposite side of where Zaadma and Rokuish were, Dashvara noticed that, outside, there weren’t more guards than those he had seen in front of the main entrance. The other doors weren’t guarded; some of them were even open to let the fresh night air come in. Not far from where he was, squatting next to a rock, there was a flowered garden, and at the back, he could see another building, wide and looking rather like a stable.

Dashvara stayed immobile for a while, scanning his surroundings. Assuming that the ten Xalyas were confined somewhere inside Faerecio’s house, and considering that he managed to free them without raising the alarm, where he would take them? He had spent all the way asking himself the same question. He had come to the conclusion that, since the lands were vast, hilly, and covered with fruit trees and bushes, he could, with any luck, manage to hide them and erase the track, and then walk to Dazbon ceaselessly until arriving there, and pass unnoticed in the crowd. But, for succeeding in such a plan, he was well aware that he would probably need the help of Zaadma and Rokuish.

A movement, on the veranda, drew his attention. As soon as he saw the two hounds fastened with chains to a column, his heart sank. He damned under his breath. If he had carried on just a little more to the south, the breeze would have probably betrayed his smell. It would be impossible to get closer to the house without them noticing his presence.

Dashvara backed a bit, as silently as he could, and he turned back enough to place himself straight in the east. He sat down at the foot of an olive tree, and he paused to think. However hard he pondered, all led him to the same conclusion: he could not get into the house without making an uproar.

Unless…

Dashvara picked an olive hanging at some palms from his eyes, dropped the pit, and swallowed the fruit thoughtfully.

When arriving in Rocavita, he had seen cats. The idea that was infiltrating his mind curved his lips into an auto-deprecating smile. It wasn’t that bad, though. Capturing a cat and carrying it to the mansion would not be easy, but it could fix one of the most urgent problems. The objective was simple: to get into the house without being suspected by the owners. Once close to the veranda, when the dogs began to bark, Dashvara would wait for someone to go out and find out what was happening, he would release the cat so that it would rush away in full view of everyone, and he would glide himself through one of the open windows without being noticed. It was a solution. And the only one a bit elaborated that occurred to him at this moment.

He stole another olive before half straightening and going around the house northward. He found Zaadma and Rokuish where he had left them.

“You’ve been long,” Zaadma muttered. “Well? Have you found out something?”

“I have a task for you,” Dashvara informed her without answering. “Could you capture a cat in Rocavita and bring it to me?”

The Dazbonish woman stared at him, puzzled.

“A cat?”

“A cat,” Dashvara confirmed, and he clarified: “It’s chiefly a distraction maneuver.”

Zaadma and Rokuish exchanged a perplexed look. Dashvara sighed.

“Trust me. You wanted to help me, right? Go to capture a cat and bring it to me. Take,” he added, drawing some rags and his rope. “Tie it with this. I mean it,” he insisted as he noticed that the expressions of both of them were still showing disbelief.

Dashvara fell into an expectant silence.

“I will bring you a cat,” Zaadma determined. “But keep your damned rope. I would never tie a poor animal.” She got up. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

Dashvara saw her draw away between the olive trees, and then he gave Rokuish an intent look.

“Lend her a hand, Rok.” He handed him the rope and a rag. “Just in case.”

The Shalussi sighed, but he took both objects and adjusted his veil.

“I hope you know what you do, Dash.”

He moved away, following Zaadma; Dashvara rubbed his eyes. He had slept a whole day, and even so, it seemed that the wound had drained all his energies.

He clenched his teeth and went back close to the rear of the house. He spent the next minutes peering at the lights inside the building and figuring out the house plan using the location of the windows as a guide. He determined which rooms were worth avoiding, and he had eaten more than twenty olives when his gaze was drawn by a flight of small stairs leading down to a door situated in the basement of the house. Was there a better place to hide a few slaves than a cellar? He pondered. But, if they were really there, the door would be surely locked. He still had in the bag the steel bar stolen from Orolf’s smithy, and he deemed it possible to try to force the lock. The problem was that he could not be sure how much time he would need to open the door, nor whether he would succeed. On the contrary, he didn’t doubt that, as soon as the hounds started to bark, not much time would pass before someone went out to see what was going on. And this someone would see him quite easily if, instead of getting into the house, he decided to try his luck in the cellar. In that case, a cat wouldn’t be so useful.

Dashvara suppressed his apprehensions, and then he suppressed his fatigue. He picked some more olives and began to make them burst, smearing their juice over his skin and clothes. With any luck, that would delay the hounds’ reaction. He grasped the steel bar, hid the bag, and got up. He moved closer to the end of the olive grove, and after lying down on his front, he began to crawl toward a small circular structure enclosed with columns and roofed with a dome, which stood about twenty steps away to his right.

He was arriving next to the pavilion when a sudden snap made him flinch. A door had just opened, and two figures passed by the half-sleepy hounds. They went downstairs out of the veranda, hand in hand. Pale like death, Dashvara tried to crawl back to the olive trees. However, as he saw the two silhouettes going closer, he finally went as immobile as a stone, hardly daring even to breathe.

One of the figures was a man with a saber on his side. The other one was a young woman dressed in a long tunic with glittering pearls shining under the fine light of the waxing Moon. Dashvara saw them passing by and penetrating the olive grove. They could have gone farther, but not at all: they stopped only a few steps away, and Dashvara had to turn his head slightly not to lose sight of them.

“Oh, Al,” the girl’s sweet voice sighed. “I feel that my father will break my heart tomorrow. You know his purposes. He wants me to marry that man.”

“Don’t cry, my princess,” the man’s gentle voice whispered. “I won’t permit Arviyag to get what he’s seeking. You’re the light lighting my way, Wan. And you will keep lighting it until you decide to left it in the dark.”

“Oh, Al,” she repeated, moved. “I would never leave it in the dark. Never. But my father…”

“I don’t care what your father says,” the other replied. “I only care about your wishes, Wanissa. We’ll elope. I’ll take you out of the Republic, and we’ll live for each other. What do you say?”

“Oh, Al!” the girl said excitedly. “Would you really do it?”

From then, the sweet nothings went on, mixed with passionate kisses. Dashvara suppressed a sigh of pure tension. He believed that his situation could only get worse if one of the lovers saw him, but he was wrong: at some point, the house door opened again, and another two silhouettes went out of the mansion, this time with an unhurried and moderate gait.

For an instant, Dashvara believed they would catch that Al and that Wan showing a relation that was obviously furtive, but then the young woman murmured urgently:

“Someone’s coming!”

They moved farther between the olive trees, and Dashvara, hoping they wouldn’t look too much over their shoulder, grabbed hold of the very opportune seconds of grace to straighten and step back. He had the luck to come across an olive tree rather bushy, and he squatted. The voices became more and more audible. They were approaching the pavilion. Dashvara forced himself to keep patient.

“I will propose it to her tomorrow morning,” a calm voice was saying. “And tomorrow afternoon, I will send you her response.”

“I’ve gotten the impression she was a little unwilling to talk to me today,” the other voice commented. Dashvara recognized it with almost full certainty. It was Arviyag’s.

“Don’t worry about it. My daughter may seem like a girl a bit shy in society, but, trust me, you will manage very soon to inspire her with respect and affection.”

“I know. She’s lovely. But that Almogan—”

“Forget Almogan Mazer. He’s a good boy, and a family’s friend, but he has not a chance. He’s just a secretary. My daughter is smart enough not to pay attention to him. With some presents and more frequent visits to our palace in Dazbon, the matter will be settled. I predict that both of you will have a future full of happiness.”

“You’re so kind, Lord Faerecio. I, for one, will consider myself a fortunate man if my relationship with your daughter prospers positively.”

“I trust it will. As for the other matter that has brought you here—”

Between the columns of the pavilion, both figures looked like two tall, gaunt, black sticks. Lord Faerecio continued:

“—I would like to know the provenance of these young girls.”

“They are Xalyas,” Arviyag answered. “As far as I am aware, the clan was annihilated less than a month ago by an alliance of clans. They say it was the last clan of the steppe lords. There’s another caravan full of prisoners that will arrive in Rocavita in a few days, of Essimean village provenance. I ask one of the chiefs to minimize the losses, but according to what he said, unfortunately, it took a lot of time for the Xalyas to surrender.”

Dashvara suddenly felt a nervous contraction that had nothing to do with his wound, and he tried but failed to relax.

“So the steppe lords have been defeated to the last,” Lord Faerecio said thoughtfully. “Does it mean there won’t be prisoners from the steppe anymore?”

“I doubt it,” Arviyag denied. “All the sources are not exhausted in the north. There are still small independent tribes likely to be captured. Like the Steppe Thieves. They have an excellent reputation in Rocdinfer. They are great fighters. In Diumcili, some buyers would certainly pay more than five hundred dragons for one of them.”

“Five hundred dragons for only one?” Lord Faerecio whistled, amazed. “If so, that would be a good investment.” He shook his head, and Dashvara, overwhelmed by the horror he felt for this conversation, was sure to perceive a pleased smile on his face before he turned toward the house. They left the pavilion. “By the way,” he said, “I was told by my informers that you have changed the store to hide the prisoners. Now you hide them under the Temple, don’t you? What’s the reason?”

“Oh… There’s not a particular reason. It’s a matter of security, that’s all,” Arviyag assured while following him.

“Well, you will have to change the place, Arviyag: it’s a sacrilege to put pagans beneath a Temple of the White Dragon.”

“Of course. I will take it into account for the next arrival, Lord Faerecio.”

The voices faded out in the distance. Only then Dashvara realized that he was holding his breath, and he inhaled slowly, casting a sidelong glance to the nearby olive trees.

He closed his eyes and opened them almost instantly. He could scarcely believe such a stroke of luck. It was as though a luck-fairy had blessed him and had brought him his most hungered answer. Now he knew that Fayrah wasn’t in Faerecio’s mansion. Perhaps that would make the task easier.

He heard a stifled noise behind him, and he turned around. Wanissa Faerecio had just stopped between two olive trees, and though he couldn’t see her face clearly, Dashvara guessed that she had seen him.

“Al…?” her quivering voice let out.

His lover, that Almogan Mazer the girl’s father had talked about, emerged from the shadows. He positioned before her, drew his saber, and aimed at Dashvara about three paces away.

“Who are you?” he demanded, hissing. “Are you a tramp? Answer me!”

From a short distance, his juvenile features were even more noticeable. Dashvara, still crouching on the ground, answered:

“You’re obviously a knight, and between knights, I think we can reach an interesting agreement. I don’t tell anyone about your touching relationship with the lady, and you act as if we’ve never come across each other. A fair deal, don’t you think?” he smiled.

The republican, far from lowering his weapon, drew closer. Dashvara sighed. He would have to guess that the man would try to make the brave in the presence of the “light of his way”. Almogan declared:

“If you’re a knight, as you say, your own heart would prevent you from betraying us.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, and he stood up.

“Of course, my friend. I told you: I don’t care a sand grain about what you do or not do together. And now be a good boy, return this weapon to its scabbard, and forget me. By the way, the olives of this place are delicious,” he added, before turning his back on them and moving away with long strides.

He didn’t worry that Almogan might attack him from behind: he was a knight, and knights are not traitorous. Dashvara smiled, and he made a circle before returning to the same place. The lovers had already entered the house. He recovered his bag, put some olives into it, and after noticing that his oily bath had given him a smell of olive stronger than he had expected, he wondered how many actions in a person’s life ended up eventually being useless. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away to the place where he had left Rokuish and Zaadma. He waited some time until he lost his patience, and deducing that both of them had probably backtracked choosing the same way as before, he drew away from the mansion, went back to the road, and began to advance along its edge. He discerned the inn of the Cathoney, and he was about to go around it when he perceived a complaining meow. Not daring to run because of his wound, he picked up the pace, though, and he crossed the road, which was illuminated by festive lanterns. What he saw then made him smile teasingly. A figure holding a bag was running after a cat across a small square with a fountain. The feline disappeared at the speed of an arrow behind a mountain of flax bundles.

“No way!” Zaadma grunted, stopping exasperatedly. “At this rate, it will get light before we manage to catch one.”

Rokuish sat in a small stone wall, panting.

“I give up,” he wheezed.

“To give up before the unavoidable isn’t to give up but to act wisely,” Dashvara let out, and he sat down beside the Shalussi. This one had jolted, and he stared at him with open wide eyes.

“What the—?” He swallowed. “For my mother’s sake, you nearly scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

“Well…” Dashvara smiled with a playful expression. “I only wanted to admire your cat hunter’s talent.”

On hearing his voice, Zaadma spun around and crossed the small, earthy square with a troubled expression.

“Does it mean you have come to help us?”

“No. It means that we leave the poor cats in peace. I know where the Xalyas are, and they are not in the Faerecio’s house. They are under the Temple of the White Dragon. I suppose you know where it is, right?”

Zaadma let her arms fall with the bag, and she sat down on the wall letting out a snort of disbelief.

“Under the Temple of the White Dragon? In the catacombs? Impossible! I don’t believe it.”

Dashvara made an impatient face.

“Do you know where these catacombs are?”

Zaadma nodded.

“On the top of the hill. The temple has a main entrance. And you can go into the catacombs through inner stairs. I only went in once, when a celmist master of Dazbon made us visit it, to all the disciples, but that was… well, many years ago. It was quite chilling,” she confessed. “But I can’t believe Arviyag has managed to make the Xalyas enter there without a dragon seeing them.”

“A dragon?” Rokuish echoed, startled.

“A priest,” Zaadma clarified. “It could exist a secret entrance, but for finding out where it is, you would need a divine revelation.”

“Unless the dragons are in on the deal,” Dashvara meditated out loud.

“Impossible,” she affirmed without the slightest hesitation. “The Dragon Brotherhood has probably some small flaws, but they would never defend a man like Arviyag: they were the quintessential opponents of slavery for decades.”

Dashvara took a soft breath, and he stood up.

“All right. Thanks a lot for your help, you two,” he declared.

He moved away, and he heard distinctive footsteps behind him. He didn’t turn to see Rokuish and Zaadma following him. He just said:

“If anything happens to you, it will be only your fault.”

He didn’t get any response. He smiled, amused, and kept climbing the hill.

There was still music flowing out of some buildings. The heat had vanished, replaced by a cold breeze. They came across some groups of people; some of them were happy, others were drunk, and some people looked already half-sleepy. The crescent Moon had advanced in the sky, and Dashvara estimated that, in two hours, it would disappear completely, replaced by the Gem. So, after an interval of deep dark, the blue brightness of the new celestial body would light their way if they succeeded in fleeing… and it would also light that of their potential pursuers.

The Temple of the Dragon occupied all the top of the hill, and it was separated from the rest of the houses by a rock platform about fifteen feet in height and a white marble stairway. Whereas other streets of Rocavita were still a bit lively, the Temple was lying in dead silence.

“Are there night guards?” Dashvara inquired as the three of them crouched down behind high bushes, at the foot of the stairs.

“Outside? No idea, but I don’t think so,” Zaadma answered in a whisper. “Inside, however, there surely will be. At the very least, there will be a lookout. The inside of the temples have valuable objects, and they keep them well. If you intend to get in through the main gate, I warn you straight now: we would need a battering ram to bring it down.”

Dashvara nodded thoughtfully, and he examined the building narrowing his eyes. Four svelte towers rose in each corner. In the middle, the temple was roofed with a dome crossed by a long corridor that seemed to represent two dragon wings. These went even beyond the limits of the outside walls, at about one hundred feet high. The stained-glass windows adorning the frontage were not only impossible to open without breaking them but also were probably too narrow to slid inside. And they were also too high without a ladder.

Dashvara shook his head.

“Good. I have studied the White Dragon religion, but I would like a confirmation, Zae. Isn’t it said the White Dragon accepts any soul willing to worship him?”

Zaadma set an expectant face.

“Indeed, it is,” she confirmed.

“And isn’t it said the faithful have to help any soul willing to pray to the White Dragon?”

Zaadma frowned and nodded.

“Yes, it is. But what are you driving at?”

Dashvara pondered.

“I remember that Maloven, the shaard who educated me, talked once about the republicans who went to the temples at night hours in an impulse of faith or simply because of routine. Is that true?”

Zaadma nodded again.

“It’s unfortunately true. I myself went only once into a temple at night, to steal something. And everything turned out badly because of a pious who caught my partner taking a small dragon figure.”

Dashvara stared at her for some seconds.

“You’re a thief?”

“I was a thief. That’s why I was confined in a monastery, what do you expect? I already told you I’m not a saint at all. Well, are you going to explain to us what brilliant idea you’ve gotten now?”

Dashvara preferred to comment nothing, and he came back to the main matter.

“Look. Perhaps I manage to get these lookouts to open the doors if I tell them I want to pray to the Dragon. With a little acting and luck, they will let me go into one of their chapels. And as soon as they stop looking at me suspiciously, I will go into the catacombs.”

Zaadma and Rokuish didn’t know how to respond. Dashvara nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s what I’m going to do.”

He stood up, and Zaadma reacted.

“That brilliant idea of yours leaves much to be desired. If I recall correctly, the catacombs’ entrance is situated in the main dragon. You would need the lookouts to be blind if you don’t want them to see you. Besides, unless you intend to appear in the blacklist of the Dragon Brotherhood, I remind you that you can’t go in there with weapons.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows. Of course. He removed his sabers from his belt and handed it to Rokuish.

“Please keep them, Rok.”

“Are you crazy?” Zaadma snorted. “What if you find yourself in front of an Arviyag’s man?”

Dashvara waved vaguely.

“I will improvise. And this time, you definitely can’t help me, so instead of staying there arousing suspicion, I advise you to go to sleep. Tomorrow, you will know if my attempt has been a success or a failure. Good night, friends.”

He was going to move away when Zaadma grasped him by the sleeve.

“In the catacombs, everything is dark. Take this,” she grumbled as if unwillingly, pressing a cold object into his hand. “At least it will light your way a bit. You have to heat it. Just rub it with your hands: it will work.”

Dashvara squinted at the flat and circular piece of metal. He barely saw it in the dark.

“I hope it is not some object you don’t want to lose, is it?” he asked.

Zaadma muttered under her breath.

“Maybe it is. But you won’t lose it because I simply forbid you to do so.”

Dashvara bowed his head, feeling both moved and amused.

“Your confidence honors me.”

He gave Rokuish a brief nod, and he broke cover, going upstairs with a remorseful expression. It was not hard to get the effect: his wound did not hurt him, but his head was spinning. He knew, thanks to captain Zorvun, that some grievous injuries could affect the nervous system, and he knew personally the case of a soldier that, after being stabbed by a Shalussi, was suffering unexpected and chronic faints. He could only hope that his convalescence would not last and would leave nothing more than a scar.

When he arrived before the door, he could check Zaadma’s affirmation: those gates, reinforced with metal bars, seemed to be even more resistant than those of the Xalya Dungeon. Without giving himself time to think about what he was doing, Dashvara grasped the knocker with a hand and he knocked. He pricked up his ears. Did he ever expect to hear something through all this amount of wood?

Then, a sudden clap jolted him. A spyhole had just opened through a grating fixed in the door. A tanned face with grayish eyes came in sight, softly illuminated by a distant light.

“Who knocks at the Dragon Door?” he asked.

Dashvara lowered his veil upon his face and answered:

“A humble heart who feels the need to cloister himself for a night into its bosom.”

There was a silence.

“Are you drunk?”

“I am not,” Dashvara replied patiently. “I come with a clear mind. A doubt torments me, brother, and I need to consult the Dragon right now.”

He stared at the lookout intently, signifying that to deny him access to the temple would be contrary to the wish of the White Dragon itself. He perceived a brief nod before the spyhole shut. He heard a noise of chains, and soon, a small door set in the right-wing opened. Dashvara hardly suppressed a triumphal smile, and he waited for the lookout to open the door fully before walking in with a steady gait. The man who had opened was human and smaller than he was. He bore a saber, and Dashvara didn’t doubt he knew how to wield it. He looked beyond. The hall looked rather huge. The scarce Moon’s light was infiltrating through the translucent dome, and with the flame of several wax candles, it caressed shyly columns, sculptures, and glazed tiles.

“Would you want me to guide you to a particular chapel?” the lookout asked.

Dashvara had no idea whether there were chapels with specific names in the temples. Anyway, he didn’t want to arouse suspicions by asking he be guided to the main dragon, so he improvised.

“I will pray in all of them,” he decided.

“In all of them, brother?”

Dashvara looked at him with determination.

“In all of them.”

The lookout bowed his head respectfully.

“The doubt that afflicts you must be profound. I will guide you to the Main Chapel, and from there you will be able to go to the others.”

Dashvara bowed his head haughtily. It seemed as if this lookout had taken him for some man with class. He certainly wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. The lookout shut the door, and Dashvara paid discreetly attention to the mechanism. If he did not find another exit, this one might be a possible way of escape, though not exactly very stealthy.

Wordlessly, the lookout passed ahead. His steps resounded on the tiles of the temple. Dashvara followed him silently, his inquisitive gaze sweeping around. His eyes were attracted by large frescoes representing discrete periods of the White Dragon’s life. It could be seen jailed in a cavern, flying in the sky, fighting against terrible monsters, smiling benevolently at its first followers… There were figurines in precious metal, imitations of the eternal pearls gifted by the White Dragon to its more generous worshipers… Whatever his eyes looked at, it was a burst of the Dragon Brotherhood’s wealth and power.

With all those painted lizards, how to recognize the main dragon? he asked himself. His instinct told him that the catacombs must be somewhere at the back of the halls. Behind a locked door, probably. If this lookout was the only one in all the building, Dashvara had the feeling that he wouldn’t last long conscious.

However, as he could notice, they weren’t alone. A tall man with a candle in hand was shaking a kind of aromatic maraca around a stone mound, at the back of the hall. Dashvara realized pretty soon that this stone mound was actually a dragon’s huge head. He gazed at its glittering, black-as-obsidian eyes. They looked almost alive. He had no doubt this one was the main dragon.

The lookout bowed.

“May the White Dragon guide you so you can appease your doubt,” he pronounced.

Dashvara made a grateful gesture, and for a whole minute, he stood there, before the dragon’s mouth. He thought, at that moment, that he had forgotten to ask Zaadma about a detail. How did the republicans pray? He knew there was a specific ritual, but however hard he tried to remember Maloven’s words, they escaped him. So when he saw that the man who was scenting the hall began to dart curious glances at him, he kept a stiff upper lip, and he improvised.